


Daddy, May I?

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Kink, M/M, Praise Kink, Slow Build, Sugar Baby!John, Sugar Daddy!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brother smiled genuinely, albeit a bit confused, and offered his hand, “Mycroft Holmes, how do you do, Dr. Watson?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Please Excuse Us

John poured himself another cup of coffee and rubbed his temples in the darkened call room. He’d been on twenty four hours; he’d offered to cover for Sarah, whose mother was undergoing her first chemotherapy treatment. It was hard for him, but he understood it was hell for her, so he sucked it up.

He did lament that the hospital was at maximum capacity, and one of his patients was a loud, obnoxious, very high man whose spot on accusations and vitriol made two of the nurses cry, and one refuse to treat him. He’d had to rely on Josi, a study, weathered nurse in her mid thirties with the stout sensibility of an eighty year old Russian babushka. She pretended to be deaf, which the man called her out on, but as she continued the ruse, he found it impossible to rile her, and finally his protestations died down.

He sat down, closing his eyes in the cool room and savoring the relative silence for approximately four minutes, at which point his pager went off. He sighed, chugged the last of the slightly too hot coffee, coughed, then called the number back.

“323, again, Dr. Watson. His brother’s here now, but he’s nicer. I think. Kind of creepy. Wants an update from _the doctor_. Apparently I’m not good enough.”

John moaned. Being the doctor had its perks. This wasn’t one of them. “Yeah, I’ll be there in five.”

John sat down for two more minutes, letting the darkened room soothe his senses, then steeled himself for the hustle and bustle of the A&E. With a deep breath, he swung open the door and squinted into the artificial light.

“Mr. Holmes,” he addressed his patient, “How can I help you?”

The pale, dark haired young man scowled, “I don’t need anything. Get out.”

“Now, Sherlock,” John was surprised to see a man hidden in the corner, “I need an update as to your condition.”

John paused, the man spoke softly and firmly, and stood, lean and resplendent in a three pieces suit. Power wafted off him, and John took in a deep breath to center himself. “I’m sorry, Sir, I can’t release information without the patient’s consent.”

“Ah, you will see, Doctor-“ here the man paused, prompting John.

“-Watson,” John offered.

“Dr. Watson, yes. I am Sherlock’s legal guardian. He is just seventeen, as you can see in his records, and I am entitled to know his medical history, outside of reproductive history,” the man smiled blandly, but a twinkle in his eye intrigued John.

He looked into the chart to verify the man’s claims. “I see, Mr. Holmes, the elder.” He turned to his patient, “I’ll be sharing information with your brother now.”

“Fine.” The young man spat, losing an argument to which John clearly wasn’t privy.

He turned back to the striking figure in the corner, “Your brother was stabbed in the torso. His condition is complicated by his use of cocaine. He needs to stay overnight for observation, since his drug use can counteract the beta blockers we used.”

The patient scoffed, “What do you know? You’re just a resident, you haven’t been certified yet.” His tone went from dismissive to cruel, “You’re recently back from the military, you’ve been shot. Trained as a surgeon, but your hand isn’t steady enough anymore. So you’re stuck with junkies like me, in a never ending cycle of dull, boring patients. You’ll hate your job soon enough. It doesn’t pay well enough for a flat in London, and you’re living with your brother trying to make ends meet. It’s not working, and you’re worried you’ll have to move.”

John stared at his patient, then smirked. “That was brilliant. You were almost entirely right.”

His patient looked offended, and shrieked, “Almost?!”

The attractive ginger in the corner smirked. “You see, Sherlock, but you don’t observe. He’s clearly been living in the hospital call rooms for that last three weeks. He and that brother didn’t get along.”

His patient glared amidst his sulking.

John took pleasure in announcing, “Well, you’re both wrong. I have a sister,” he nodded at his patient, and turned to the brother and nodded again, “who kicked me out. How did you know?”

The brother smiled genuinely, albeit a bit confused, and offered his hand, “Mycroft Holmes, how do you do, Dr. Watson?”

“John,” John offered, taking his hand with a bright smile.

His patient groaned.

“John, you have been most helpful. I look forward to discussing my brother’s case further with you.”

“NO!” John’s patient yelled, “He’s MY doctor. You can’t have him!”

John snapped his head to his patient, “I’m sorry, I don’t belong to anyone, regardless of your sibling rivalry. Your brother has rights to your information, which I will provide for him.” John turned to the brother, the gorgeous, sexy, powerful brother, and stood strong, “And I will discuss nothing more with you than the necessities of your brother’s case. I will not be a pawn in whatever game you’re playing.”

The elder Holmes stared at him, and gathered himself enough to say, “Of course, Dr. Watson. Please excuse us.”

John nodded, then left the room. It’d been a while since he’d been attracted to another man; he’d need to work that off before coming back. He rushed back to the call room, and grasped himself through his scrubs. He moaned, thinking about the tall ginger in the jet black suit. He imagined being restrained by the blood red tie, and groaned further as he lowered his scrubs and began to stroke himself. He thrust into his fist, thinking marginally of his patient’s gorgeous brother, and within minutes, his deprived libido burst into joy over his fingers, soaking the front of his scrubs. He sighed in his own hands, cock throbbing, pulsating the final throbs of come onto himself and melted boneless into the call room bed.

After recuperating, John stripped himself of his come streaked scrubs, and put on a pair of fresh new green ones. With a through hand washing, he went back to tend to his patients.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re disgusting.”

“Sherlock, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You want to fuck my doctor.”

“Surely a thought so crude has never crossed my mind.”

“Quit pretending.”

“I am quite certain I have no idea what you are talking about. Your physician can provide me with information on your care, and I only care for you, dear brother.”

“Fucking hell, Mycroft, he’s near half your age! I might not be as clever as you, but I’m not fucking stupid.”

“Getting stabbed in the torso by a theft victim might suggest otherwise.”

“Tosser.”

“Idiot.”

“Why _my_ doctor? He’s perfect fine and relatively competent. Why must you dote on him?”

“I believe you’ve answered your own question. The more pressing question is, why are you so insistent that I not engage him? Does it threaten you?”

Sherlock growled and turned his head aside.

Mycroft smiled. He had a doctor to assist.

-o-

John, in the quiet of night, came to check in on his patient. But his patient’s guardian intervened. “Dr. Watson. May I request a moment of your time?”

John nodded with a pleasant grin. It was rare for a family member to be so considerate, and the older man exuded polite sophistication.

“You are clever, and I refuse to allow your circumstances to prevent you from being one of the few truly competent physicians at England’s disposal. It appears that to keep you on path as a physician, it is necessary to allow you a certain amount of comfort. Thus, I am offering to provide a room for you. You will continue your study and courses, and so long as your patient care fails to suffer, I will provide room and board. Is that acceptable to you?”

John coughed uncomfortably. This felt awfully like a bribe. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry. I can’t be personally involved in my patients’ lives.”

“I believe that, as an A&E physician, once my brother is admitted, he is no longer your patient.”

John paused. This was true. But this was too generous, and good things never happened to him. “I appreciate your offer, but I’ve learned early on that nothing is free, and a proposal like this is always too good to be true.”

“May I speak frankly?”

“Sure.” John shrugged and flicked his wrist, “Why not?”

“My brother, while bright, is a petulant, sniveling brat towards almost every person he meets. You were able to ignore his taunts, appreciated his cleverness, and impress us both in mere moments. Think of your staff, and answer me, how many friends do you think he has?”

John dwelt on the nurse who, after a half hour of inconsolable crying, took the rest of her shift off, and answered, “Not many, I’d wager.”

“Then, is it so unlikely, when I find a person like yourself, able to tolerate and appreciate him, I find myself drawn to make their acquaintance? I raised my brother after our mother died in childbirth. I was just eighteen, and while he despises me as a brother, I love him like a son.”

John wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he didn’t.

“I rather suppose that I am offering you room and board for your continued association with my brother. Not as a caregiver or babysitter, but simply an association. You needn’t even be friends. Just a third person he can tolerate after myself and the resident medical examiner.”

John quirked an eyebrow at the last bit, and the stately gentleman explained, “Dr. Hooper is apparently accommodating of Sherlock’s interest in the dead.”

John raised both eyebrows in quiet surprise, and nodded agreeably. He started to understand how this wasn’t pity or bribery, but simply a plea for companionship for a lonely child.

The elder Holmes smiled as though John had passed another test, and then softened his voice, asking with John assumed was fatherly concern, though he’d never heard that tone from his own father’s voice, “May I ask how you intend to find yourself lodgings? How much longer do you expect to be able to live in the call rooms undetected?”

John ran his hand along the back of his neck, and looked at the ground.

“Perhaps consider my offer just until you find your feet?” The man offered a business card on which he’d written an address in neat, clear print.

“Yeah, I guess that’d be okay,” John took the card. “I get off at 7 am.”

“Excellent. I’ll send a car.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Call me Mycroft.”

-o-

The car pulled up, black and ominous, and John clenched his duffle in one hand to prevent it from pumping ceaselessly. His heart pounded, and a voice in the back of his head told him how stupid this all was, to get into a car to live with a strange, albeit alluring man he’d only met in the last twenty four hours. But Mycroft had been so sincere, concerned, _inviting_ (serial killers could be charming, the voice reminded him). John took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and waited until the driver confirmed John was to be his passenger, relieved him of his bag, and opened the door.

To his surprise, Mycroft was waiting in the vehicle for him. “I suspected you may have been feeling some anxiety regarding the haste with which the offer, and your subsequent acceptance, was made. I wanted to give us some time to get to know one another. If you don’t mind, I’ll like to treat you to breakfast.”

“That’s not necessary, I can just do baked beans and toast back at your place.”

“At _our_ place, Dr. Watson.”

“John, please.” It seemed silly to be referred to his title outside the hospital.

“And I most certainly will not allow you, after a 24 hour shift, to settle for beans on toast. I’m not sure my chef would deign to make such a simple meal. I know a lovely place, by appointment only, which has the best English breakfast in all of London.” Mycroft patted John’s knee, “A resident physician needs all the strength one can get. I insist.”

John flushed slightly at Mycroft’s touch, although it lacked any sort of intimacy; just a doting touch from a kindly, ( _but luscious_ , another, more animalistic part of his brain spoke up) man, doing a kind act to help someone less fortunate. A charity case; and wayward soul for Mycroft to help, then bandy about as his good deed for the year.

“I know you suspect my intentions are less than honorable, John. Let me tell you a bit about myself. I occupy a minor position in the British government, despite what my brother may suggest. I spend a great deal of time at work, and I see my home for little more than daily and sleep hygiene. There are several unused bedrooms; over time, my ancestors employed less and less staff, and I, with simply a regular housekeeper and a chef, am the anomaly. Should you so choose, you may go days without seeing me. Sherlock lives there as well, you will likely be less capable of ignoring his contributions to the household. I would appreciate that his minor scrapes and explosions could be assisted by you, insomuch as you are comfortable providing these services. I will defer to your expertise on when trips to the hospital will be necessary. I am long since abandoned the hope that my brother won’t end up in the hospital once again. It is simply a matter of when.”

John nodded, taking in the information, storing it away for future reference and deliberating his new found circumstances before making any thoughts or declarations. The car soon stopped, and Mycroft exited the vehicle, coming around to open John’s door, offering him a helping hand to get out of the car. He looked up; the restaurant appeared closed. “Are you sure it’s open?”

“Oh, it’s always open for me. I just have to call ahead.”

When then walked it, a kind elderly maître’d greeted Mycroft with unbridled enthusiasm, clasping Mycroft’s proffered hand with both of his own, slightly gnarled with the beginning stages of rheumatoid arthritis, John noted. “Mr. Holmes!” the scratchy voice exclaimed, and ended with a rough cough; the type that comes with years of smoking, “I’ve readied your table, sir.”

“Very good, Mr. Yates, I appreciate your kindness. Will you please let the chef know we’ll take a full English breakfast for my companion and a soft-boiled egg with dry toast for myself?”

“Yes, of course, sir. I’ll be out shortly to pour your coffee.”

Mycroft turned to John, “I’m sorry, would you prefer juice?”

“After a 24 hour shift, coffee sounds fantastic.”

“Very good, sirs,” Mr. Yates nodded, and disappeared into an ornate wooden door leading into the kitchen.

“The chef here, Chef Bastian, was once in a spot of trouble of which I was able to resolve. He offers free meals at anytime, though the food is so rich, I only come here for special occasions.”

John blushed, “Nothing special about me.”

“Au contraire, my dear John. I have the good fortune of dining with an intelligent, attractive doctor, with unmatched tolerance for unusual personalities, of which I am one. It’s _quite_ the special occasion.”

John reddened further, the restaurant suddenly became very warm, and he took a drink from the water glass at his table to cool himself. He looked up at Mycroft between his lashes, and suddenly felt the clear and intoxicating age difference between him and this man at least fifteen years his senior. He felt oddly drawn to the older man, but tampered down his inappropriate thoughts. He was grateful for the opportunity to have a place to live while he organized his personal life, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize that by hitting on the man, who likely viewed him as some sort of wayward orphan on whom he could dote.

A pretty waitress with long flowing red hair and an overly friendly personality returned shortly with their meal. She smiled seductively at John, who remained oblivious as he concentrated on not appearing too interested in his… land lord?

After the waitress left, miffed by John’s complete disinterest, John spoke up. “I’d like to pay you at least something for your generosity. Even a small stipend to offset the cost of food.”

“You are quite the independent young man. I suppose it was necessary, with your father’s addiction and your mother’s inadvertent neglect as she struggled to hold your family together.”

“How-?” John stuttered, then laughed, “It’s that weird thing you and your brother do, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“It’s fantastic, you know. Absolutely extraordinary. I mean, it should probably bother me, having the truth laid out like that, but it’s hard to be upset in the face of that kind of brilliance.”

Mycroft smiled, and looked down at his breakfast. John swore he saw a hunger dance in his eyes before Mycroft regained total composure, and simply said, “Thank you, John.”

They enjoyed the rest of their meal, Mycroft enquiring as to John’s education, and avoiding the topic of his own work life. John found himself relaxing, and impressed that just this simple act of eating together did ease all the concern he’d had about sharing a home with Mycroft. He could do this for a few months, until his elective research rotation came up, and he had more time for flat-hunting.

With a fully belly and a warm cup of coffee, John felt sated and relaxed. Mycroft came around and offered his hand to assist John up, pulling out his chair in one smooth motion.

“Shall I introduce you to your new lodgings?”


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft enjoyed watching John as they approach the estate. John’s eyebrows were permanently affixed to the top of his forehead, and his mouth dropped slightly. Mycroft took John’s distraction as opportunity to stare at his supple lips, and imagined how they might look stretched around his cock. He passed his eyes over John’s body, the tanned flesh stretched softly over padded musculature. John was still fit, though the months since his discharge added a perfect softness to what Mycroft was sure were once hardened features. He imagined running hands down his strong torso, and sucking those precise surgeon’s fingers into his mouth, taunting the young man with his tongue before showing him what the joys of experience could bring him.

But there would be time for that. He didn’t get where he was today by being hasty. Like playing chess, Mycroft saw ten steps ahead. He knew that with careful planning, he could get John to come to him, willingly and passionately. He craved eagerness and enthusiastic consent, and knew how to stack the deck to acquire it.

“This is your place?” John asked, and Mycroft smirked at the awe in his voice.

“Yes, well, family inheritance. It’s a bit much for just Sherlock and myself. I’ll be happy to have found a better use for it while you are here.”

John whistled,”Damn.”

Mycroft chuckled softly as the car pulled up to the entrance. He waited for his driver to open the door, and unfolded his long legs out of the backseat and stretched, using his umbrella to stabilize himself. He walked around the vehicle as John clamored out the other side. The driver fetched the bag from the trunk and passed it to the stately housekeeper, a stoic, severe looking woman with short grey hair.

“Shall we?” Mycroft offered, and gently placed a hand on John’s shoulder to lead him to the door. John’s shoulder was strong and hard under the loosely fitting scrubs, and Mycroft gave an appreciative squeeze as he opened the door to John’s new accommodations.

John turned and looked at him before entering, and Mycroft didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to his lips and back up before breaking into a nervous smile.

Mycroft led John up the stairs at the left the foyer and took a left at the top, leading down a hallway. Mycroft opened the first door on the left. “This will be your room while you are here,” he offered, “You can see it has an en suite,” he gestured to a closed door. “Mrs. Hannigan has brought up your bag, and refreshed your linens. Should you need more, there is a spare set at the bottom of wardrobe; else Mrs. Hannigan will change them out weekly for you.”

John stared at the bag, and Mycroft saw him wondering how the older woman had made it to his room before them.

“She’s very good,” Mycroft answered his unasked question.

John startled, then laughed, “Christ, that takes some getting used to.”

“Why don’t you get your rest, and when you are refreshed, I’ll show you the rest of the manor.”

John nodded, staring at the en suite. Mycroft patted his shoulder affectionately, then let his fingers trail down a few inches of his arm before withdrawing his hand completely. He saw a flush up John’s neck at the slight intimacy, and smiled.

_Perfect_.

-o-

John awoke to a crash and what sounded like a small explosion. He bolted out of the bed, disorientated in his surroundings, but rushed out the door towards the noise regardless. As he continued two doors down, his brain caught up with him. _Manor, Mycroft, Home._

He exploded into the room, where a curly haired brunet looked up from the floor, seemingly just as surprised to be there as John was to find him there.

“Sherlock?” John recognized the boy from A&E.

“Ah, Doctor, I see my brother has successfully manipulated you.” Sherlock stood, brushing himself off and tipping his stool back upright.

“Let me check your dressing,” John demanded, thinking that the force of the explosion might have disturbed his knife wound, as superficial as it may have been.

“Unnecessary.”

“Are you a doctor?” John asked, a lecturing bite in his voice.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock scoffed.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” John responded, and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm. The boy glared at him, and John rose his eyebrows with a scowl.

Sherlock slumped, then in one smooth motion, ripped off his shirt, “Fine. Be quick.”

John checked over the dressing, and found that it needed to be changed. He left Sherlock in his room momentarily while he fetched supplies from his bag, and returned. He disinfected the site, then applied a new dressing. “Much better,” John declared, satisfied with him work.

“Do you mind?” Sherlock demanded, gesturing to his experiment.

“Not at all,” John smiled, then looking over Sherlock’s work, asked kindly, “Tell me about it?”

Sherlock turned slowly and stared at him.

“Please?”

“Of course,” Sherlock stuttered, when his brain came back online. He beamed brightly as he delved deep into a thorough explanation.

-o-

He spent the few hours before dinner with Sherlock, listening to his experiment, asking a few questions, and then just sitting back and watching the genius at work. It amazed him that a boy six years his junior was so fantastically talented.

A knock at the door broke them from their reverie, and Sherlock cursed.

“Go away, Mycroft!”

“Oh hush,” John admonished, “Yes?” He asked loudly, so that Mycroft could hear him well.

“Dali is preparing dinner, it will be ready shortly. Please feel free to dress casually.”

“Bugger off!” “Thank you!” Sherlock and John hollered simultaneously, and John smacked Sherlock softly on the arm.

“Be nice to your brother!” he scolded, then asked, “What did he mean, dress casually?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “My brother is a prat who clings to social mores as though they may save his life. We typically _dress_ for dinner.” John could hear the scorn dripping from his voice.

“Well, makes sense in a place like this.” John gestured to the obvious expense and luxury.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, and John stood, “Shall we?”

“ _I_ shan’t.”

“You’ve got eat something; you’ve just been released from the hospital. Your body needs proper nutrition to heal correctly. And carbohydrates to fuel that brilliant brain of yours.”

Sherlock turned, dropping his pipette on the lab table, and stood up with a scowl, “Fine, _doctor_.”

John smiled, his inner doctor preening, and opened the door to let Sherlock pass.

-o-

They tucked in around the formal dining table, Mycroft at the head, John to his left, and Sherlock left of John, eager to put distance between himself and his brother. The dishes were fine china, and the goblets were clearly crystal. John would bet money that the silverware was authentic as well. He felt woefully out of place.

“Nonsense, John, it’s just trappings. Ignore it. Dali’s prepared a lovely meal.”

Dali swept through, depositing a cut of Kobe beef on each plate, detailed exactly what they’d done to creating such an enticing smell. They came in and out of the kitchen, with potatoes, cream soups, steamed, savory snow peas, and a host of other side dishes John could barely identify, let alone name.

“Jesus, if you eat like this every meal, I’ll end up with gout,” John chuckled, referring to the illness frequently referred to as a ‘rich man’s disease.’

Sherlock scoffed as he ignored his food. John looked over to him and with a pointed glare, stabbed his fork in Sherlock’s direction. “Eat,” he demanded. Sherlock pouted, but picked up his fork and knife, and, while staring down John, began to cut into his steak.

John grinned, satisfied by his patient’s compliance, and turned to his own food. He took a bite of the steak, and groaned. The sound was embarrassingly orgasmic, and John’s faced blushed a beet red. He quickly stared down at the plate, heart pumping in mortification. Subsequently, John missed the way Mycroft’s eyes widened and his pupils dilated.

Sherlock, true to form, did not, and stabbed his steak with particular vigor, the silverware clanking loudly as it struck the plate.

John took a few deep breaths to control himself, and muttered a soft, “Sorry.”

Mycroft blinked once, then settled himself, “It’s quite all right, John, some of us have more appreciation for the finer things in life, than _others_.” The tilt of his head implicated his younger brother, and John marveled that despite his horrifying moment, Mycroft still managed to comfort him and redirect their attentions to Sherlock, in one smooth, diplomatic response.

John licked the savory herbs off his lips and caught Mycroft’s eyes as he does it. He flushed again, but this time his eyes didn’t retreat immediately, and he saw Mycroft struggle to keep his composure steady. John smirked as he looked down, spearing another piece of the delectable steak and bringing it to his lips.

Sherlock coughed loudly, obviously, and John took the hint, “So, Sherlock!” he over-enunciated, “tell your brother about your experiment!”

Sherlock’s face fell in irritation, but he clearly decided that it was the lesser of two evils, so, to John’s relief, he delved into a monologue that last the rest of dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock flounced into the library, “Damn it, Mycroft! Why must all your clothing be so… bespoke?”

“Because I rather enjoy my clothing to fit,” Mycroft responded airily, not looking up from his file.

“How am I supposed to recognize the signs of hastily cleaned blood soaked clothing for the average person when everything in this damn manor is _bespoke_? I have _nothing_ on which to experiment.” Sherlock nearly shouted, pacing the room with a nervous energy. “If I can’t keep busy, Mycroft…” Sherlock trailed off, letting the threat speak for itself.

Mycroft yawned, too used to Sherlock’s nuclear extortions, “I believe John’s clothing would be sufficient for your needs.”

“I refuse to assist your woeful attempts at courting. You simply wish to dote on him, and what better way than to dress him up like your very own living doll?”

“I would, of course, reimburse him any damages, but I most certainly think more of your doctor friend than that.”

“ _My_ doctor friend!” Sherlock shrieked, “You’re the only who lured him here!”

“Yet he convinced you to come to dinner _and_ eat.”

“He’s… useful.” Sherlock admitted.

Mycroft grew tired of the conversation, and waved him away, “Do as you please, Sherlock, but please remove yourself from my study. I have work to do.”

Sherlock growled, but left. He stalked down the hall, and stood between his door and John’s. No matter what he did, he played into Mycroft’s hand.

_Fucking Mycroft._

-o-

“Goodness, John, you are looking refreshed today!” Sarah exclaimed, coming up to him and ruffling his hair.

John pulled back, with a smile, “Just finally had a good night’s sleep.”

“It feels like you’ve been on shift forever! I swear it was as though you were living out of the call rooms for the last month! I’m so glad you got out of here! How’s Harry doing?”

John blushed at the mention of the call rooms, but admitted, “I don’t know. I’ve moved out. Living with a family friend right now.”

Sarah’s face scrunched in concern, “I didn’t think you had any friends.” As soon as she spoke, her eyes grew wide and she slapped her palm over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. That’s not what I meant!”

Her words stung slightly, but only because of their truth. When his parents had died, their friends all flittered away, leaving Harry and him to fend for themselves. He faked a smile and lied, “We’d lost touch for a while when I was in Afghanistan. He and his brother were in A&E not long ago, and offered me my own room, instead of kipping on Harry’s couch.”

If Sarah suspected him of any mistruth, she didn’t let on. “Well, no wonder you look so rested!”

John smiled, and Sarah affected a mischievous grin as she said, “I don’t feel so bad now.”

John frowned, one eye narrowed, “Why?”

“Beste assigned you the impacted bowel in room 23!” she laughed, as she grabbed her last chart and darted down the hall.

John groaned. If he never saw another impacted bowel, he could die happy.

-o-

John flopped down on his bed; the shift had been long and terrible. He’d been vomited on by three different children, punched by an anxious woman begging for oxycodone, and had a surprise biological warfare drill to round out the night.  He knew he’d regret sleeping in his scrubs; so he pushed himself with great effort off the soft, downy bed, and opened his wardrobe.

And found nothing.

Hell, he didn’t care. He didn’t have time to hunt down his missing clothes, so he stripped on the spot and felt back into bed, snuggled naked into the silky sheets. He was asleep with moments.

When he woke, he stretched, and the slide of the sheets up his body surprised him. The fabric clung to his naked arousal, and he sighed contentedly. He wriggled around in the sheets, the friction toying heavily with images from his dreams, in which he strutted around, bare save for a sheet, though Mycroft’s study, the older man watching with dark eyes.

John reveled in the dream, until he realized with a start why exactly the image was in his head.

He jolted out of bed, and checked the wardrobe again.

Empty.

He looked in all the drawers, the en suite, even under the bed in his desperation.

No clothes. None.

John whined. Prancing thought the manor in a sheet was a fantasy, not an _objective_. He rubbed his face with his hands and sat on the edge of the bed. Well, it was either a sheet, or a towel from the en suite. Even his dressing gown was missing.

He rolled his eyes. He was a soldier, a doctor; a bit of nudity shouldn’t put him off.

He gathered the sheet and wrapped it around himself like a makeshift toga. His embarrassment had removed any arousal he’d awoken with, so with a straight back, chin high, he left his room in search of clothing.

He noticed the faint metallic scent of blood still looming about him, and realized it wasn’t coming off his scrubs, as he had thought last night, but from down the hall. He followed the scent to Sherlock’s room. He knocked once as a warning, then opened the door.

His heart beat rapidly as he saw large splatters of blood covering the walls, the hardwood floors, the rug, and the bed. He rushed to Sherlock, slumped over the desk, and pulled him up, searching for injury.

For a brief moment, Sherlock was limp in his arms, and John’s heart nearly stopped. Then, Sherlock thrashed as he tried to right himself, and snarled, “What the hell, John?” as John jumped back.

“ _Me_?” John’s voice rose, “Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you were dead! Why is there so much fucking blood in here?”

Sherlock recovered nicely and his face fell passive. “Experiment,” he dismissed.

“On what?” John demanded, incredulous, “How much blood six feral cats can hold?”

“On household attempts to remove blood splatter from inferior fabrics.” Sherlock refused to meet his eyes.

John processed that statement for a moment, then nodded with a tight lipped smile, “Inferior fabrics? Is that why I’ve no bloody clothes left?!”

“It was valuable data, John. Necessary to the work.” Sherlock answered with a waiver in his voice.

“Goddammit, Sherlock! Clothes are necessary to my _life_!” John fisted his hands into his hair. He took several deep breaths, and the volume of his voice fell. He appeared calm, but the fire was still in his eyes. “Fix this, Sherlock. I need clothes. Today.”

He turned to leave, and found himself face to face with Mycroft just outside of Sherlock’s bedroom. He opened his mouth to explain his outburst, but Mycroft waved him off, and leaned in dangerously close. John’s breath stuttered, as the hint of Mycroft’s cologne unfurled, and he could see the delicate freckles on his neck. He didn’t move, unsure of what was happening, when Mycroft leaned back, and pulled Sherlock’s door shut behind him. He quickly shut his mouth, realizing he was gaping.

“John, I apologize for my brother’s intrusion into your personal effects. There is a change of clothes waiting in your room, and should you allow me, I will take you to replenish your wardrobe. After all, it wouldn’t do for you to flounce about in that-” Mycroft paused and licked his lips as his eyes deliberately ran up and down the length of John’s form, “ _snug_ sheet.”

A shiver traveled down John’s spine, and he found himself discreetly loosening the sheet around his waist to hide his rapidly returning arousal. _Did Mycroft have any idea what he was doing to him?_

“I’ll meet you in the foyer in fifteen minutes,” Mycroft smiled knowingly, and walked away.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The car stopped in front of a store John knew he could not afford. “Mycroft, I… this isn’t appropriate. My clothes were not this nice. You can’t replace them here. Let’s just go to M&S.”

“Absolutely not. I refuse to purchase clothing made with those fabrics, which directly support sweatshop labor in third world countries. This store sells only fine fabrics made by persons making a full and fair wage during the entire stage of the process.” Mycroft knew appealing to John’s humanity would overcome his concerns over financial disparity.

“But… well… I guess. I’ve also wished I could afford nicer clothes for that exact reason. It was something I’d hoped to do once the doctoring paid off.” John admitted.

They entered the store, and the shop keep, Jarvis, hastened to their side. He’d helped Mycroft before. It put his son through college. He smiled brightly, “A non fat café latte and a plate of strawberries for you, sir? What would your companion like?”

Mycroft placed a hand softly on John’s shoulder, “We may be a while. You should order a drink at least.”

“Tea would be lovely,” John looked supremely uncomfortable.

Mycroft nodded to Jarvis, who scurried off, then turned back to John.

“I plan on buying your entire wardrobe. This shop will be perfect for suits. It’s not bespoke, but I suspect that you would be uncomfortable with that option. I plan on replacing your three suits, a dozen dress shirts, a dozen trousers, a few jumpers, if you insist, and a few casual clothing options as well.”

John looked at his feet, and shuffled a bit. Mycroft understood.

“Yes, socks, vests, and boxers as well.”

John muttered his thanks, then cleared his throat and looked Mycroft in the eyes. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he spoke with confidence. “I appreciate this.”

“It was the least I could do, given my brother’s tendencies to destruct. I’ve had to have his bedroom professional rebuilt six times in the last five years.”

John laughed, reaching out to touch Mycroft’s arm as he did so, “I feel less bad now. That couldn’t have been cheap.” He retracted his hand, but Mycroft still felt his warm touch. Mycroft was making progress, being touched unsolicited in an intimate manner. Mycroft grinned. Watching John try on clothes would be most enticing.

Jarvis returned with their refreshments and with thanks all around, he left to fetch the measuring tape.

John squirmed uncomfortably as Jarvis measured him, his hands ghosting over legs and chest and neck. He blushed when Jarvis’ hand barely touched his inseam, and closed his eyes until the tailor had finished his duties.

John took a large gulp of tea and looked to Mycroft, who took the opportunity to bite into a large, ripe strawberry, smearing his luscious lips with a pink tinge. John flushed again, and turned away, unaware that Mycroft could see the soft bulge beginning to form in the front of his slacks. He smirked, and bit into another strawberry. His lips would be a gorgeous hue by the time he was done with the plate, and he expected John to be enticed by their charms.

Jarvis came back with a collection of suits, all gorgeous and form fitting. The first two didn’t flatter his stocky, muscular form, but the third, a navy suit with lovely slacks that firmly gripped his arse, made Mycroft swallow hard.

He stood, circling John, wearing a dress shirt and aqua tie on loan from the shop. As he expected, the color combination was perfect, and he’d need to buy a similar tie, but until them, he looked at John as a predator to his prey. John lifted his arms and turned, and Mycroft viewed his taut buttocks.

“This suit flatters you, John.” Mycroft stepped up behind him so they could both look into the three way mirror. He ran his hands over John’s broad shoulders, then slid his fingers down the younger man’s torso, “This is a nice, clean fit, an excellent style to highlight your build.”

Mycroft’s hands continued south, “These trousers give you length, and they highlight your strength.” He slid his hands down John’s waist to his legs, letting his thumbs drift over the soft wool as it curved over John’s supple arse. He felt John tense underneath him, and a glance in the mirror showed John’s increasing interest.

Mycroft walked around to John’s front, smoothing the lapels, feeling the solid pectorals underneath, then fell to his knees. “Let me check these hems,” he lied, looking up at John, then slowly dipped his head to inspect the hems of the trousers. He looked up again, ignoring the now obvious tent in John’s trousers and offered, strawberry stained lips only inches from John’s cock, “The stitching is excellent. What do you think John? Would you like to have it?”

John blushed deeply, across his face and down his neck, as Mycroft stood up to his full height. “Yes, it would be lovely,” he stuttered.

“Excellent!” Mycroft stepped back, giving John access to the dressing rooms. “Let’s get that suit off, and try something else, shall we?”

Mycroft waited; John spent an extra five minutes in the dressing room than he had with any of the prior suits. When he appeared, his face was warm and flushed, and Mycroft could see perspiration dotting his hairline. Mycroft smiled. John had already felt the need to pleasure himself during their first stop of the day.

_How many more times_ , Mycroft wondered, _could he entice John to take himself in hand today? They had_ hours _of fittings ahead._

-o-

John changed into the stylish trousers and a soft blood red jumper that fit him like a second skin. He was astonished at how wonderful his clothes felt; but he supposed for the small fortune Mycroft had paid for them, it was only proper.

He left the call room, refreshed after the shower, and ready to head home.

“Looking good, Dr. Watson!” a feminine voice teased behind him. He turned to see Sarah, who asked, “Leaving so soon? Walk out with me?”

John nodded, and fell in step beside her, “So, someone splurged on some new clothes,” she complimented.

“Oh, well, my-,” here John paused, unsure what to refer to Sherlock as, “That family friend I told you about? Mycroft? His younger brother destroyed all my clothes, so Mycroft replaced them.”

“With those?” she asked, eyebrows raised into her hairline. “Is he loaded?”

“I guess you could call it that,” John laughed.

Sarah laughed with him, then softly bumped into him, “Looks like someone’s got himself a sugar daddy.”

John’s face reddened and he stuttered, “What? No! I’m not sleeping with him!”

With a knowing look, she prodded, “But you’d like to be?”

“I’m, he’s, it’s not-“ John protested, but Sarah put up her hand to stop him.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered, John. It’s okay,” she reassured, but then asked, “Is he hot?”

“Oh, God, yes,” he replied immediately, then slapped his hand over his mouth. “Shit!”

Laughter burst from both of them, and Sarah wiped the tears from her eyes. They reached the parking deck, and she asked where he’d parked.

“No, Mycroft sends a car,” he confessed, not looking her in the eyes.

Sarah stared at him. “Seriously? He buys you clothes, gives you a place to live, sends you a car, you think he’s hot and you’re _not_ sleeping with him? Why the hell not?”

“I don’t think he sees me like that.” John said, but as the words left his mouth, images appeared in front of him. Mycroft, on his knees, touching him, stroking his sides, hands on his shoulders, his arms, his arse. Mycroft was a brilliant man; there is no way that he’d be completely oblivious to the effect he had on John. Yet, he never overtly made a move. Why not?

_Oh_ , John realized, _Mycroft was leaving the decision up to him_.

He looked at Sarah with wide eyes, and admitted, “I don’t know.”


	6. Chapter 6

John hadn’t figured out much more by the time he arrived back home. Mycroft’s, he reminded himself. He stumbled out of the car, foot catching on the inside of the door. Claude, Mycroft’s driver, caught him before he hit the ground, and John’s face turned red.

“Ta, for that,” he muttered with downcast eyes, and stood up straight. He brushed down imaginary lapels before entering the house. At the empty sound of unoccupied quarters, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He hurried himself to his bedroom, and collapsed on the bed. He waited for sleep to overtake him, but instead his mind whirred with images of Mycroft.

He felt his blood rush south as his brain filled with images of the slender man on his knees in front of him; those strawberry red lips. John imagined long fingers teasing down his zipper, slowly releasing his cock from its restraints. John mimicked the action, imagining Mycroft taking him out, and slowly enveloping him with those pink, pink lips. John shuddered with the image of Mycroft engulfing him, taking him in slowly, looking up at him, that soft curl falling out of place as Mycroft bobbed up and down.

John couldn’t stop himself from visualizing it; the older man, on his knees before him, and John moaned. His hand quickened over himself, and he thought of all the other ways Mycroft had tortured him that day. Four times, John’d come in a dressing room. If only he could take the arse that wiggled innocently in front of him while tying a loose lace on his oxfords, or relish the hands that ghosted over his cock when examining the quality of his jeans’ zipper.

His breath grew ragged, and he swiveled his hand just a bit, loosening a touch to allow his foreskin to glide more smoothly. With a gasp, he came, imagining leaving lines of come down Mycroft’s face, draping his eyes, his cheeks, and that that gorgeous fucking curl.

He shrugged out of his top, and used it to wipe himself off.

Sleep fell more easily after that.

-o-

When he woke, loud noises rattled from the direction of Sherlock’s room. He sighed, ignoring them, and gathered himself for a shower. The hot water ran over his shoulders, and he slumped into its comfort. The stream infiltrated his lungs, and he felt himself opening up with each breath. The world felt clearer, more defined. John washed himself off thoroughly with vigorous scrubbing and frothy bubbles. So much nicer than anything he’d used before. He stopped, his brain fully operational and logical in the aftermath of a good night’s sleep and the comfort of the water raining down upon him. He looked at the soap in his hands. Luxurious. Expensive. More than he could afford.

Is this what it would be like, dating Mycroft Holmes? Kept?

Could he be a kept man? He couldn’t imagine it. Mycroft was a keeper, a protector, a caretaker to his brother, keeping an eye on all their affairs, carefully using his money not to flaunt his wealth, but to keep them comfortable. More than comfortable.

It left John on a uneven keel. What could he possibly bring to a relationship like that? He had nothing to offer. Mycroft didn’t need a doctor, certainly not one still in residency, and though he’d been a soldier, he surely was useless as one now, with the tremor and nerve damage.

He adored Mycroft, the man was gorgeous, a dry sense of humor, keen and absolutely brilliant. John brought nothing to the table. And he’d be damned if he’d be a kept man. He signed, setting the soap back down on the shower ledge. He rinsed himself off, and promised himself to buy his own toiletries from now on.

-o-

Mycroft paused at the entrance to the dining room, taking stock of John’s appearance. Clean, refreshed, resigned. Resigned to what? Eating beans on toast; wouldn’t let the cook make him a full English; feeling overindulged, feeling uneven, taken care of, and miserable for it. Mycroft sighed.

What he would give for John to understand. For John to see himself as Mycroft saw him. John was strong willed, resilient, courageous. He didn’t just tolerate the Holmesian traits, he embraced them. He laughed at Mycroft’s pithy humor, made Sherlock eat with nearly no effort. John clearly didn’t understand how well he was suited for Mycroft, how much Mycroft craved the young mans’ touch.

He was eager to show John just how he cared. He wanted little more than lavish all his attentions on the younger man, he’d use his years of experience to bring John to a hot, quivering mess, but he knew John would be less receptive two these advances right now. No, Mycroft thought, John would be rather insulted by the suggestion of sex right now. He needed John to feel as useful as Mycroft knew him to be, to feel equal. Then, once they found even ground, Mycroft would work to reassure John that being cared for, cherished even, was no weakness.

But he didn’t want to lose the young man’s interest in the meanwhile. Mycroft straightened his spine and loosened his robe, allowing the soft ginger curls to spill out the top, and knocked softly as he entered the kitchen.

John looked up, quickly flushing, and averting his eyes. Mycroft smiled victoriously and offered a bland “Good Morning, John.” He fetched himself a piece of toast, a boiled egg and a pinch of salt and sat across from John at the table. “How was your shift?”

“Busy, got an interesting case that I might be able to write up once she’s discharged.”

“Are you required to publish?”

“Not so much required as ‘strongly encouraged to’,” John replied, “I’ve always like writing up the interesting cases though, so I’ve already publish a dozen or so. Most of my colleagues will share cases with me, and just request to be listed as a secondary author. It works out for all of us.”

“You must have quite the talent for storytelling,” Mycroft complimented, eyes shining with clever manipulations.

“I don’t know that storytelling is the right word, but I can write mean case report.” John laughed.

Mycroft took a bite of toast, and mentioned, in a deliberately careless manner, “Perhaps you could be of use to Sherlock. He’s got books and journals worth of findings that won’t ever see the light of day. The few experiments he’s attempted to publish are fantastically dull; the driest, more technical drivel to be set forth in ink, and I read government reports for a living.”

John snorted, but looked thoughtful, “You think he’d let me?”

“I suspect that once he overcomes his irritation at having to explain his methods, he’ll be glad for the chance to prove how clever he is.”

“I’ll ask him,” John nodded. “Thanks.”

Mycroft ate the last of his egg, then wiped his hands on his napkin. “Now, John, I wonder if I might be able to ask a favor of you.”

John hooked an eyebrow, but waited for him to continue.

“I have a gala for an Laotian dignitary at the end of next week,” Mycroft sighed with a wave of his hand, “And it is the unfortunate obligation of my position to attend such events. It is also expected I should have a companion for the evening. I was wondering if you would be willing to accompany me?”

“Me?” John frowned, “I’m… I’d be no good for that sort of thing. I would stick out like a sore thumb in your crowd. Can’t you take a member of your staff?”

Mycroft shook his head, “That is exactly the point, John. I find myself lacking anyone who genuinely enjoys my company apart from yourself. I only have staff to bring, and they only tolerate me because I frighten them. I need an actual companion.”

“What about your PA?” John asked, remembering the mysterious brunette that never seemed to remember him.

“She’s, how do I put this?” Mycroft pondered, “Not my type.”

“Go for blondes, then do you?” John joked unwittingly.

Mycroft looked hard at John, making sure John locked eyes with him. He glanced up to the shaggy patch of blond hair then back down to John, “I do.”

John bit his lip and looked to the corner of the room. “I haven’t a tuxedo,” then he laughed, with stilted effort, “Of course, you’d know that, having bought my entire wardrobe.”

“Replaced your entire wardrobe, which would have been entirely unnecessary if my brother hadn’t destroyed the perfectly acceptable wardrobe you already owned,” Mycroft titled his head with a not so subtle glare, trying to emphasize John’s self sufficiency over his own assistance. “And I would be more than happy to rent you a tuxedo for the event, should you deign to accompany me.”

John smiled at the table, then took a deep breath and looked up to Mycroft, “Yeah, okay. That’d be nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [BeautifullyHeeled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/works) for the beta read!


	7. Chapter 7

John was post-call, having spent the last seven days on nights, and the last day sleeping on the li-lo in the call room just for those moments the day staff became overwhelmed. He looked forward to having the day to himself for once. He read a few chapters of a new book, some humorous travel memoir that had nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with misadventures in the Pacific Islands. He made himself an indulgent cup of one of Mycroft’s finer teas and moved to the garden to enjoy the mild weather. He tossed a warm quilt on the soft grass. The sun shone, offsetting the cool breeze, and John felt cozy in his jumper and jeans. He hadn’t properly relaxed in months. Before Mycroft, he struggled to find a new flat on his days off, or picked up moonlighting shifts at neighboring clinics to earn enough money for a deposit. He’d only amassed half the funds when Harry’d kicked him out.

After a hundred pages and the bottom of a lovely cuppa, John wandered up to Sherlock’s room. The door was wide open, and several raccoon carcasses were draped over a tarp on his bed. Sherlock wore goggles, and prodded what might have been a colon. John raised his brows, and coughed. Sherlock swung around, surprised, and cursed as the entrails he was holding dripped thick ooze down onto his unreasonably posh trousers. He dropped the intestines back into the metal tray from whence they came. He jumped up and promptly dropped his soiled slacks.

“Christ, Sherlock!” John shouted and turned away, as Sherlock stripped down to black socks and blindingly white boxer briefs.

“Really? You are a doctor. A doctor _and_ a soldier, and it’s _my_ pants that frighten your delicate sensibilities?” Sherlock scoffed with a smile.

“As a doctor, I normally have to ask to see someone’s pants,” John replied dryly, turning back now that he’d adjusted to the odd sight of a mostly naked Sherlock surrounded by partially dissected animal carcasses. John rolled his eyes, and went over to the boy’s wardrobe, giving the bed a wide berth. He opened the doors; black slacks and brightly colored button down shirts seemed to be the only options. He pulled out something that passed for ‘casual’ in Sherlock’s world and thrust them in Sherlock’s direction. “Put these on, you prat. I don’t need to see how your boxers match your skin tone.”

Sherlock smirked, “I’m just as light as my brother, you should probably prepare yourself.”

John blushed, and forcefully tossed the outfit at Sherlock, “Oh, fuck off! I’m not… “ John sputtered for a moment, looking for the right term. Instead, he found himself visualizing the freckles he’d seen on Mycroft’s chest all over his body, the pale flesh helping them to stand out. He bit back a moan, but shook it off, “Oh, just bugger off.”

“Ugh.” Sherlock complained, shoving his legs into his trousers, “Dammit. I thought this might happen. You _do_ find him attractive.”

“Have you _seen_ your brother?” John retorted, then winced at his confession, and turned his head aside, looking at the ceiling and biting his lip. “I mean, well-“

Sherlock cut him off, “No, I understand. Mycroft has a maddening allure, or so I’ve been told. It normally diminishes when he opens his mouth and spouts his government speak.” Sherlock thought a moment, then admitted “We both put people off; honestly, it’s a shock you are still here. But I suppose, if you can tolerate him, it’d best be you.”

“Be me for what?’

“He likes you. You are… less objectionable than the few others, and I assure you, there are very few whom he’s been willing to consider. One was a philosopher; can you imagine? He was damned near intolerable. But you, a good head for science, independent, loyal, less stupid than the others,” Sherlock pondered for a moment, “Yes, I suspect Mycroft may be far less meddlesome if you were to be involved.”

“Sherlock, I mean, there is absolutely nothing going on. I think maybe we’ve flirted. But who hasn’t? Besides, I’m not ready to be someone’s kept man.”

“Is that what you think? Hardly. You’d be surprised how hard it is to pay people to be kind. He and I, we can read insincerity at a glance. You’re refreshing that way. Always honest. Mycroft keeps only those worth keeping,” Sherlock grinned, “Such as myself.” He paused, his face falling to neutral, “Should he wish to care, it is because you have some sort of value to him.”

“What could I possibly have to offer him?” John scoffed, but weakly. He was beginning to see more clearly, as Sherlock talked. He might not feel special, but the Holmes brothers, each in their own way, were drawn to him for the very qualities John found mundane.

“You should be asking that the other way around. You’ve got marketable and valuable skills. He’s a bloody bureaucrat. Yes, he has the intellect of a genius, but he wastes it so.” Sherlock groaned, as though the very thought pained him. “Trust me, John, he would be lucky to have the likes of you.”

John fidgeted with the hem of his jumper, “Thanks, Sherlock.” He cleared his throat and looked around at the carnage in the room. “So!” he started, eager to change topics, “Mycroft said that I might be able to help you write up your research? I’ve done a fair number of case studies; I enjoy scientific writing a bit. What do you say?”

Sherlock eyed John, and then smiled. “There’s that honesty. It’s like reading a children’s book.” He waved to his bookshelf. “The fourth shelf down holds my more recent experiments. Read up, find one you like, and I’ll walk you through the hard parts,” he teased.

“Git,” John tossed out, but went to the bookshelf and pulled out a red, leather bound journal. _Time for some light reading._

-o-

John woke to a gentle push on his shoulder. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, and sat up. _The library. Right, he’d been reading by the fireside_ , he remembered. He looked up and saw Mycroft, bending slightly over him, suit jacket shed but waistcoat and sleeve garters still in place. John licked his lips, dry from sitting by the fire, and Mycroft grinned affectionately. He bent down and cupped John’s jaw, running a thumb over his cheek. A curl broke loose from Mycroft’s stubborn coiffe and John gulped.

“Such a flush from the fire, John. Wouldn’t want you to be too warm.” Mycroft’s thumb dipped down and softly brushed over John’s bottom lip. John chased it with the tip of his tongue, and Mycroft sighed contentedly.

He bent down, his hand not leaving John’s face, and so gently John wasn’t entirely sure he had, Mycroft pressed his lips to John’s. His lips were soft but unyielding and John felt the urge to open up to him. But before he could, Mycroft pulled back a few centimeters, and looked into John’s eyes. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and stood up straight.

He thinned his lips, and murmured, “Apologies, John, if that was too forward. The glow of the fire, the light flickering in your eyes; it brought out the romantic in me. I do try to restrain myself, but,” Mycroft affected a little grin as he glanced at the floor, “I find myself disinclined to do so with you.”

Blissfully lost in the tingle still on his lips, and the warmth distinctly separate from the heat radiating off the fire, John smiled.

“I don’t mind. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the fam for the beta! (You know who you are!)


	8. Chapter 8

John looked at himself in the mirror and grinned. The tuxedo may have been rented, but it fit like a glove. He had been initially skeptical when the tailor had first brought out the sapphire suit. He figured he’d stick out in a sea of black ties and wondered why Mycroft would want to humiliate him in a crowd he could barely maneuver through as it was. He tried to decline, but the tailor insisted, and when John buttoned the single black button and brushed down the black lapels on the deep blue tuxedo, he beamed.

He looked damned good. The tuxedo highlighted the width of his shoulders, the trimness of his torso while down playing his short stature, and the slight belly he’d developed since dropping daily PT. The color of the fabric brought out his eyes, making them gleam like sapphires themselves.

“Well,” he announced to no one in particular, “I’d fuck me.”

“And I’m sure that image would give my brother a coronary,” Sherlock drawled behind him.

John jerked in surprise, then turned with a smirk, “Look at me! I look good, though.”

“I suppose some might find you aesthetically pleasing.”

“Arse.”

“Boy toy.”

John backhanded Sherlock’s bicep, “I’m just doing him a favor, I’m not his toy.”

“And the kissing? Is that a favor, too?”

John blushed, “How could you possibly-“ He shook his head and held up a hand, “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

“You know this is going to be frightfully dull. Boring. Tedious. Much more fun to stay with me. Do experiments.”

“Right, because your idea of fun is raccoon entrails oozing over your trousers. I think I’ll stick with Mycroft tonight.” John turned back to the mirror, “Plus, I can’t let looking this good go to waste.”

Sherlock groaned and whined, “ _Dullllll_. If you want proper entertainment, I’ve got a hive upstairs making blue honey.” He sulked out of the room.

John hollered out the door as he left, “Right. When I want to get stung by bees for questionable honey, I’ll let you know.”

-o-

John descended down the stairs, and watched as Mycroft slowly came into view. His breath caught as he saw the dark navy suit. John smiled. He might not be wearing black-tie, but Mycroft’s non-black matched him well. Mycroft cared more about matching him than he did matching the room. John’s smile grew wide until it hurt bursting off his face. Mycroft’s hands were tucked into his pockets, and the curl that John adored was carefully sculpted apart from the rest of his hair.

John took a deep breath, “God, you’re gorgeous.”

Mycroft’s lips barely quirked, “That’s awfully charitable of you to say, John.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It has been my experience that I am not considered conventionally attractive.”

“Your experience is clearly wrong. Because, Mycroft, you damn well look bloody good.”

John walked towards Mycroft, then tenderly caressed his neck and stroked his tie, “I mean it Mycroft, you are gorgeous.” John leaned up, tugging on Mycroft’s tie, and brought their lips together. Mycroft took the opportunity to run his fingers through the back of John’s hair. A small groan rumbled up the back of John’s throat and spurred Mycroft on; he renewed his vigor and slid an arm around John’s waist. He pulled John flush to him, and John let out another breathy moan. John gripped him back; clinging to him like a life vest. Mycroft smiled against John’s mouth, and John took the initiative to nip at Mycroft’s lower lip.

Mycroft broke away, and tried to keep his heavy breathing subtle, but it was still abundantly clear the kiss was responsible for the flush on his cheeks. “John, we must leave. I must attend this event, and if I say here any longer with you, my resolve may weaken.”

John chuckled without letting go of Mycroft’s waist., “Good to know that the commanding Mycroft Holmes has a weakness.

Mycroft leaned in towards him, placed a kiss on his neck below the ear, and whispered, “You are the only weakness worth having.”

-o-

Mycroft served John two fingers of scotch on the ride to the gala to lessen his nerves. They arrived, in complementing blue suits, and a warm glow from the liquor. Mycroft took John by the arm, and led him in. They checked their coats, and entered the ballroom. John was immediately overwhelmed, and Mycroft held him closely and murmured into his ear, “No need to be nervous, John. Do you see the gentleman with the jade pin? He likes to pretend that limp is from being mugged; hence his ridiculous stance on crime. But no, he wouldn’t tell you that he decided to use a staple gun to connect two large reports instead of a simple binder clip.”

John snickered, biting his lip.

“Oh, it is even more amusing than that,” Mycroft’s warm breath sent shivers down John’s spine. “He stapled the two reports together. On his lap.”

John burst out laughing, and slapped his hand over his mouth to cover the loud exclamation.

“Oh, I shall be telling you all sorts of lovely tidbits this evening. First, let us meet the guest of honor so I shan’t be required to dread the conversation with that guileless imp for my entire evening. I’m hoping tonight, with amiable company, I may actually enjoy myself.”

Mycroft took John and introduced him to the Laotian dignitary, who was exactly as Mycroft described. John watched in wonder as Mycroft deftly manipulated social graces. It reminded John of Churchill’s saying; “Tact is the ability to tell someone to go to hell in such a way that they look forward to the trip.” If that were the case, Mycroft owned tact. He wielded it like the air he breathed. John was awestruck. And more than a little aroused.

For much of the evening, they danced, a sapphire glow in a sea of onyx. Mycroft held him a few centimeters tighter than socially acceptable; and they raised a few brows of the most conservative politicians, but neither Mycroft nor John noticed. John felt warm in Mycroft’s arms, comfortable and cared for. It was a new feeling for him, letting someone in. Allowing someone to cherish him.

Mycroft placed a hand on the small of John’s back. Just the feeling of John underneath his fingers, John’s warm breath against his neck whenever the younger man leaned into to hear another anecdote; Mycroft felt a euphoria he’d not ever felt before. He’d been in relationships, a few here or there in his nearly forty years. But nothing compared to John. The way John brushed off Sherlock’s annoyances, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed; he genuinely enjoyed Mycroft’s company. He was clever, strong, independent and Mycroft wanted nothing more than to cradle John close and protect him. No one had adored John the way he deserved. Not once.

Mycroft desperately wanted to fix that.

-o-

John clamored into the limo, listing slightly from an extra scotch. He slid over next to Mycroft, and then nuzzled into his neck. He muttered a soft, “Fuck it,” and clumsily straddled Mycroft’s lap. He held Mycroft’s face in both hands and stared into the stormy ocean grey eyes. “I shouldn’t want you as badly as I do.”

Mycroft ran his hands up John’s sides, “Why is that?”

John looked out the back window and confessed, “Sarah called you my sugar daddy.”

“Why does that matter?” Mycroft asked, with an amused huff and attempting to hide his smile.

“Because that makes me _kept_ ,” John spat the word with distaste, “I’m a grown man. I can’t be cared for like that.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not? I need to be self sufficient, independent. I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake! People count on me to save lives. I should be the one who cares, people shouldn’t care for me.” John’s buzz was steadily wearing off in his passionate response.

Mycroft’s face softened, and he lifted a hand to John’s face to cup his jaw, “Why not? You have been self-reliant for much longer than any man your age should have to be. You’ve spent your whole life caring for others, even as a child wiping your sister’s tears. Is it so wrong that there is just one person in your life that wants to care for you? Cherish you? Adore you?”

John looked down to his lap, trying to hide the emotion flickering over his face. “That’s not-, it’s-, I just can’t-“

“John, look at me.” Mycroft directed John’s face upwards to make eye contact. “Just between me and you, why am I not allowed to care for you? I’m not looking to interfere in your practice, I would never undermine you. I just want you to be loved as you deserve.”

“Loved?” John asked, eyes wide.

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, dropping his hands back to John’s waist. “It is rare for me to connect with another person. But to connect with another person like you? Unheard of. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”

“No,” John answered, leaning in, “It’s nice. It’s- it’s new. To be taken care of.” He kissed Mycroft tenderly, and buried his face in Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around John, and teased, “Does this mean I get to be your sugar daddy now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [HumsHappily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily) for the beta!
> 
> And if you are interested in the suit inspirations: http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/post/111780738358/the-suits-that-inspired-john-mycrofts-suits-in


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we get to the smut. Warning for some Daddy Kink, but this is a Sugar Daddy fic, so I'm hoping that's not too much of a surprise. But a warning just in case. Don't want to unintentionally squick anyone out!

By the time they arrived to the house, both John and Mycroft were flushed, sweaty, and panting. Their clothes, while still on, were wrinkled where they grasped and clenched at each other in their passion. Their lips were plump and red, their hair disheveled, and trousers tight.

Claude opened the door right as John untangled himself from Mycroft’s lap. The driver kept a straight face, a practice he’d perfected years ago as he worked through the ranks of increasingly powerful politicians and then onto the shadowy puppeteers behind them. John’s felt another wave of warmth course his face as he passed by Claude’s averted look. He felt like a bloody teenager caught in the janitor’s closet by his professor.

He bit his lip as he shuffled, tail between his legs, to the front door. He turned as he opened the door, and caught Mycroft’s shameless, high chinned walk, satisfaction wide and proud streaked across his face. John nearly giggled; Mycroft’s smugness washed his own mortification away, and he felt giddy, ready to pounce. He opened the door wider for the older man and licked his lips in anticipation.

Mycroft strode in and John closed the door behind him. As he turned, Mycroft pressed up him against the ornate oak wood, threading his fingers in between John’s and holding his hands tightly. “John, I would very much like to strip this suit from your body, and pleasure you until you know nothing beyond the ecstasy I can provide for you.”

John gulped, then stuttered out, “Oh God, yes.”

Mycroft grinned predatorily, unlatched his hands from John’s, and scurried to unbutton the younger man’s suit. “I’ve been wanting to get you out of this suit from the moment I saw you in it.” He yanked the jacket down John’s shoulders, trapping John’s arms. Mycroft took advantage of John’s temporary immobility to move his passionate kisses from John’s sweet, tender lips to the sensitive flesh of the man’s neck.

John arched out in bliss, crying for more. “Fuck, Mycroft, take me to bed. _Please_.”

Mycroft huffed, “Yes, John. Of course,” and without letting his lips leave the hot flesh underneath them, maneuvered John towards the master bedroom. They bounced off a few items; the decorative table in the hall, the doorframe, but ultimately made it to the bed, where John collapsed underneath him. Mycroft hovered atop him, and John looked up, face innocent with youth, and despite the sexual prowess Mycroft knew John had, it was unbelievably obvious he hadn’t been appropriately dominated, allowed to succumb to the heady desires of his partner.

Just like it was obvious how badly John needed it. To be adored and craved, to wantonly give into the desires of another. Mycroft’s heart near burst with the joy of being the man to afford John this gift.

-o-

John looked up into the cloudy grey blue eyes above him, fine lines of worry and responsibility surrounding them, but the irresistible look of adoration the whole of Mycroft’s face presented awed him. He felt craved, but safe, and found himself wanting to give in entirely to Mycroft’s ministrations. If anyone could understand him, predict exactly what he wanted and when, it would be this man. This powerful, loving, brilliant genius hovering above him, wanting to indulge John in every whim he didn’t know he had.

John moaned as Mycroft kissed down his chest; the ginger opening each button of his dress shirt to reveal the fine hairs underneath. Mycroft opened the shirt wide once fully undone and then lavished his attentions to John’s chest, focusing first on the sweet pink nubs of his nipples, sucking them until they puffy and sensitive, then nibbling; making John vocalize the sweetest noises as he preened in overwhelming delight.

Mycroft descended down his chest, to his naval, then further, following a thicker trail of hair as his fingers nimbly undid John’s trousers. He paused, looking up at the young man, “I want to make you weak with pleasure, I want you to beg for orgasm, crave me with every inch of your body. Will you allow me the honor?”

John couldn’t believe his ears; how could Mycroft imagine he wanted anything else? He buckled, writhing underneath the pulsating waves of satisfaction, “Please Mycroft, anything. You know me; I trust you. Anything you want. _Please_.”

Mycroft pulled away, panting hard. John huffed even harder underneath him. Mycroft beamed, and took a risk, ‘Good boy,” he complimented, “What a gorgeous boy you are.”

John groaned unabashedly.

Mycroft smirked at the words which clearly resonated with John, and he felt John’s cock twitch against his leg. Mycroft grinned; pleasure coursing through him. He started in on John’s trousers, pulling them down to feel the thin fabric barely covering John’s lovely cock.

“What do you want, my good boy, how can I reward you for such good behavior?” Mycroft asked, teasing out the response for which he very much hoped.

“Please,” John murmured, “Please d-“ He stopped himself, and Mycroft desperately needed to know that next word.

“Say it, John,” Mycroft risked, “My good boy, beg good and proper.” He pulled down John’s slacks and pants, and looked up at him from his position near his red and throbbing cock.

“Don’t make me say it,” John begged, “I can’t.”

“It’s just me and you. Let me care for you. Let me dote and cherish and adore you, John.” Mycroft insisted, letting the heat of his voice caress John’s hardness. “Just between us. No one else.”

John twitched and buckled under the warm, humid feel of Mycroft’s breath against his cock, and succumbed. Despite his embarrassment, he knew he could trust Mycroft; that his perversion would stay between the two of them.

John overcame the catch in his throat, and stuttered, “P-please, p-please, _Daddy_ , make me come.”

Mycroft groaned, John’s words echoing through his veins, sending pulses of pleasure through the nerves up and down his entire body. “Oh good boy, let Daddy take care of you,” and with that encouragement, he licked a line up John’s cock, then swallowed it in a single gulp.

John nearly cried with joy.

Mycroft allowed himself to enjoy John’s length, his thickness, as he bobbed down the extent of his lover. He opened his throat, demonstrating to John the benefits of experience. John huffed, and continued his begging now that the flood doors had burst open.

“Daddy, fuck, please, I want to come. Fuck me, please.”

Mycroft popped obscenely off John’s cock, and lunged his body up towards John’s face, “I want nothing more than to fuck you raw, open you up and destroy you for anyone else. Is that what you want?”

John was lost, eyes unfocused, floating on a cloud of ecstasy, “Please, Daddy.”

Mycroft smiled, and reached to the side of the bed for the container of lube he kept there. He coated his fingers, then slowly breeched the tight pink hole of John’s sweet arse. John gasped in elation, and Mycroft allowed his slickened fingers, one by one, to release the tight sphincter, opening John in preparation for the deep, wanton thrusting of his own cock. He teased the young man for minutes, allowing himself to brush John’s prostate on random strokes. John nearly fell apart beneath him, his hands grasping at the sheets as though they were his only buoy before drowning in sensation.

“Are you ready, good boy? Ready for me to fuck you hard and fast?”

“Yes, God yes, please!” John’s face was blessed out and accepting; his descent into his hidden desires no longer weighing him down; he was free in Mycroft’s presence.

Mycroft beamed, John’s trust in him setting off something primal and selfish with the title. Mycroft needed to possess him; own him, _devour him_. He opted to do so by lining himself up with John’s increasingly loose hole. He pressed against the tight erogenous zone slowly, watching John open, amply prepared to accept Mycroft’s cock as he pushed in. John arched underneath him, trying to accept more of Mycroft’s length. Mycroft’s eyes flickered up to John’s face, the open expression, vulnerable and wide, made him appreciate all the more how John had allowed him in; given him access to depths John only now realized he was discovering.

John let out a deep whine as Mycroft filled him; the burn and push dancing through every cell of his body. He cried out as Mycroft pulled out and thrust back in, slowly, enjoying the slide, each inch encased in slick warmth. John pulled at Mycroft; his shoulders, his back, his arms. “Please, please more.”

Mycroft smiled; ready to own John completely. He draped over John, elbows on either side of his young lover’s head, and kissed up the tanned neck to whisper in his ear, “ _Ask me like a good boy_.”

John moaned, as he pulled Mycroft down, craving the flesh against flesh, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, and allowed himself the pleasure, “Fuck me harder, please.”

Mycroft crooked an eyebrow, clearly waiting.

John knew what he wanted, he knew what Mycroft expected, and he knew if the words fell from his mouth, it would spur the hottest sex he’d ever had. John gulped, “Harder, Daddy, fuck me harder!”

Mycroft patted his cheek, and dropped a soft kiss to John’s lips, “Oh John, you are such a beautiful boy. Daddy loves you. And Daddy’s going to take you so hard that you’ll feel him for days.” With that, he sat up on his knees, digging his fingers into John’s waist, pulling the younger man’s taut tight body to him as he pistoned hard, putting all his weight into breaking John in two.

Their coupling was furious and aggressive and John, despite the muscles and strength he knew he possessed, found himself easily manipulated by Mycroft, whose hidden force was delicious. He felt exposed and overpowered, a heady mix he hadn’t been privy to before, and the hormones and chemical reactions causing arousal were on overdrive. John had no clue how badly he craved this dynamic, to submit to someone he trusted without bounds. Never in his meager twenty four years had John been this close to rapture.

John let one hand drift to where Mycroft gripped him tightly, and let the connection ground him. His older lover read between the lines and released his hold on John, and threaded their fingers together. He bent down over John, not releasing his hand, allowing the two of them to come together closely. He wrapped his other arm up around John, running his fingers through the sandy brown locks, freshly trimmed for the night’s events. John gasped aloud as Mycroft’s whole body pressed against him, and the angle of his penetration changed. John felt the occasional drag of Mycroft’s cock against his prostate, and the delightful friction of his own cock pressed between their firm bodies.

John babbled desperately, more grunts and moans than actual words, “ _Ple-, oh fuck, Myc-, fuck_.”

Mycroft smiled into John’s shoulder, then licked a stripe up John’s neck, taut with pleasure, tasting the salty sweet evidence of John’s exertion and liberation. He nibbled, savoring little of tastes of John as he continued his deep slow slide in and out of John’s well slicked, hot tightness. Mycroft let go of John’s hair, and grabbed John’s leg, catching the knee in his elbow, then pulling upwards. John nearly cried with the change in angle, and he could barely hold on.

The desperate whimpers, the pleading whines told Mycroft just how close John was, and he decided to push him over the edge. Mycroft whispered hotly into John’s ear, “ _You can do it. Come for Daddy, you gorgeous boy._ ”

John screamed with the pleasure of it; Mycroft thick and deep inside him, holding him tightly, gently dominating with precise power. John pulsed hard, feeling the wetness smearing warmth between them, as John’s orgasm wrung every last ounce of bliss from his body; leaving him near catatonic with ecstasy.

Barely aware of anything outside himself, John held on to Mycroft like he couldn’t allow himself to let go. Mycroft, urged on by John’s arse spasming tight around him, let himself be overcome, and thrust as deeply as he could until delight burst forth out of him, throbbing and drenching John inside. As he rode out his gratification, he held onto the young man beneath him as hard as John held onto him.

They silently lay as their breath came back to them, each refusing to release to other; their hearts beating hard in their chest. Mycroft nuzzled into John’s neck, and heard John whisper, so quietly Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to hear, “ _I think I love you, too_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, feel free to let me know if I've made any mistakes, couldn't get a beta for this one tonight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!
> 
> It turns out, our boys weren't done with each other yet... So a warning for mild daddy kink in this chapter, too!
> 
> I think we've got 1 or 2 chapters left...

“Mycroft!” Sherlock pounded at the door just once before barging in, “John didn’t come home last-“

John cringed under the covers as he waited for Sherlock’s rapid deductive process.

“Oh, Christ!” Sherlock shrieked, “I thought there would be at least another date. John, have you no shame?!”

John popped his head up over the duvet, and snarked, “It’s not like I haven’t known him for months.” Then he got annoyed, “Even if I hadn’t! I fail to see how it’s any of your business.” He frowned and murmured to Mycroft, “Bloody busybody, he is.”

Sherlock ducked back out the door, “John, I have a experiment for you when you’re done being… _defiled_ ,” the shudder audible in his voice, “-by my brother.”

Mycroft spoke up for the first time, “Please do kindly _fuck off,_ Sherlock.”

John giggled into Mycroft’s shoulder and Sherlock slammed the door in disgust.

John gently snuggled further into Mycroft, and found his neck. He nibbled soft kisses onto the pale flesh, and Mycroft chuckled.

“You are such a delight,” Mycroft complimented, and rolled towards John so that they faced each other. He shifted closer, and placed a gentle kiss on John’s lips. “And I am rather taken with waking up with you by my side.”

Mycroft pulled back, and looking into John’s eyes, suggested, “Would you care to stay by my side again?”

“Tonight?” John asked, refusing to break Mycroft’s gaze.

“Every night.” Mycroft confirmed.

John slid a hand over Mycroft’s waist and pulled him close, snogging him thoroughly. He leaned back, and smiled, “For as long as you’ll let me.”

Mycroft slid an arm around John, and pulled the younger man onto himself. John straddled Mycroft and leaned over, offering further kisses, then shimming down to place warm, sharp nips on Mycroft’s neck. He felt Mycroft’s cock, hard and warm, snuggle up against his arse, and he shifted down a bit further to reach the dusky rose nipples on freckled flesh.

As Mycroft panted beneath him, John stroked his fingers down Mycroft’s flank and up the rise of his hips. He perched up a bit and reached behind him to take hold of Mycroft’s cock, and sank down with a filthy moan. Mycroft bit his lip, but a growl echoed out of his throat all the same.

“Christ, I sound like a whore,” John tried to joke, but his voice came out throaty and hoarse.

“Just mine, I hope,” Mycroft teased, and John lifted and thrust down to fuck the formality out of Mycroft’s jovial manner. “Oh, _John,_ ” he gasped, and John smiled with success.

John bobbed up and down, still wet and slick with the previous night’s activities; Mycroft deep inside him. John threw his head back and groaned wantonly at the thought.

“It’s the fact that I’m fucking you with my own come, isn’t it?” Mycroft asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

John nodded his head as he huffed, his thigh muscles starting to feel the burn of fucking himself on Mycroft’s cock. He bounced further, feeling himself widen as Mycroft buried himself in his arse. He loved the feel, the blaze of being stretched open. John loved the look on Mycroft’s face, the way the curl unraveled from the coif and twisted on his forehead, the way he desperately attempted to hold on to propriety until he could no longer hold back. John loved the gasps escaping Mycroft, despite the older man’s attempts to restrain them, the little chokes and huffs as John descended, time and time again, onto Mycroft’s thick cock.

Mycroft gripped his hips hard, planted his feet on the bed and began to piston hard up into him. John felt a tinge of soreness as his hole protested the vigorous fucking just hours after the night before. He didn’t care; the slight tingle of pain traveled through his nerves and sang gloriously. The burn of his thighs faded, and all John could focus on was the sweet slide of Mycroft’s cock, the way it glided deep inside, and brushed his prostate on the way out.

John thrust himself down, trying to impale himself as hard as possible on Mycroft’s thick arousal. “Harder, Mycroft, _please,_ ” he begged. The ends of his short hair were damp and sticking to his skin, but he kept going, chasing tendrils of bliss in search of being overcome with heady rapture.

Mycroft looked up at tanned young man atop him and marveled at his good fortune. “John, my dearest John, you are-“ Mycroft had to pause; gasping as John shifted angles, “-you are utterly delectable.”

John looked down at Mycroft, then blushed and shied away, “Shut. Up.” He punctuated his words with well-timed thrusts, but the words themselves were empty and without heat.

“I shall do no such thing. You are gorgeous; glistening and flushed on top of me. So eager,” Mycroft faltered as he watched John take himself in hand, but regained his composure. “So willing. Such a clever,  keen, _beautiful_ boy.” Mycroft watched as John circled his hips faster in time with his hand, clearly so very ready to come. He decided to help.

Voice deep and dark with desire, he nearly growled at John, “That’s right, good boy, let me see you come. Come all over Daddy, and when you’re done, I want to see you lick your come off my chest.”

John groaned almost painfully as he burst at the thought, pumping rope after rope of ejaculate over Mycroft’s pale freckled stomach and chest. His hand flew quickly over his cock, he thrust down hard as he milked every last drop, before going almost completely limp.

“Lovely, John,” Mycroft stoked gentle fingers down his spine, comforting him, “Just lovely.” He tipped up John’s face and gave him a pointed look, “Now, be a good boy…” he trailed off, looking down at the mess.

John blushed and gave a small smile. He slowly sat up and gave a small grimace as Mycroft slid out of him. He shuffled down, and bent over Mycroft’s supine form. With a warm tongue, he cleaned off Mycroft’s belly and chest, tracing the firm lines, lathing and nibbling at his dusky nipples.

Mycroft panted heaving, hands gripping the sheets, arousal burning through his body, skin alight with bliss. He drank in the sweltering warmth of John’s mouth, as the young man continued his attentions long after the evidence of his pleasure was cleaned from Mycroft’s shuddering form.

When he could stand it no longer, Mycroft growled, the sound echoing deep out of his throat, and in a single motion, he bolted up, sliding around to John’s back. He hugged the blond tight, back to chest, and sheathed himself back into John’s tight, searing heat. John gasped, and bared his neck, tossing his head back onto Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft bit and sucked small bruises onto the long line of flesh offered up to him as sacrifice, and John’s whimpers grew loud and wanton. Mycroft chased his own release, burying himself deep into John as the doctor sputtered and begged wordlessly for more.

“How perfect you are,” Mycroft murmured into John’s neck.

“ _Fuck, Myc_ -“ John whined.

“No, no, John. Please. Trust me. Trust in us,” Mycroft spoke with deep reassurance, the vibrations from his words sending shivers down John’s spine. “You know what you want. What you need.”

John whimpered again, and Mycroft could feel the tension as John warred within himself. He plunged deep into the gorgeous doctor, letting him work through his anxieties; his fears of being cared for, whether he could accept the freedom of Mycroft’s attention and devotion.

John reached down to grip Mycroft’s thigh and squeezed, “Please, Daddy. I want-“ John paused and Mycroft could feel him swallow his fears, “I want you. I want to take care of me. Please.”

Mycroft smiled, and licked the shell of John’s ear before whispering with hot breath, “I’ll always take care of you, my dearest.” Mycroft felt John sigh, his tension slipping away. He pulled John down as he thrust up, holding tightly to John as though the doctor would save him, awash with the sentiment he so long derided. His chest bloomed, explosive and full, and the sensation of consuming emotion nearly overwhelmed him. He sagged his head into the crevice of John’s neck.

John panted, and as Mycroft continued to rock into him, Mycroft heard his soft moans of, “ _Daddy, fuck, oh, Daddy !_ ” The exclamations, _the trust_ John poured into him centered and grounded him and he grasped onto John with the desperation of a dying man, fucking hard and fast as John cried out. Within moments, Mycroft buckled frantically, biting down gently onto John’s neck as he rode out his orgasm, pulsing deep into John, warm and wet and harried.

John groaned deep and low as Mycroft marked him, and together, they collapsed onto the bed, huffing, sweaty and slick. Mycroft kissed the bruise on John’s neck. “I apologize. I seem to have lost myself for a moment. You bring out such… responses in me.”

John chuckled, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is, at least, rare for me,” Mycroft confessed.

John rolled over and looked worried, “That’s okay, right?”

Mycroft ran his fingers through John’s hair and down his jaw, “My good boy. I told you, you will be mine for as long as you wish.”

John snuggled into Mycroft, and the older man draped his arm around him. John buried his face into Mycroft’s chest, “This thing between us; just in private, yeah?”

“Of course, my dearest, I would never want to make you uncomfortable.”

John pressed a kiss to a particularly lovely freckle, “Thank you, Daddy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [HumsHappily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/) for the beta!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm only familiar with US residencies, not UK, so I apologize for any inappropriate Americanisms in that respect.

John peeked into Mycroft’s study. He’d woken to an empty bed, and knew Mycroft was off saving Britain or the world or whatever it was he did. Mycroft never really delved into the details, “a minor government official” is all he’d say, and John knew better than to ask. He watched Mycroft for a few moments, the way his eyes narrowed as he thought, how they danced as though watching something unfold in the empty space before him. Not for the first time, John wondered exactly how it was to live inside such a brilliant mind.

“Myc?” He inquired with hushed tones; Mycroft’s study always reminded him of a library, and he felt compelled to whisper.

Mycroft looked up and his weary expression blossomed into one of pleasant surprise, “Yes, love? Come on in.” Mycroft set aside his work, giving John his full attention.

John thought about sitting across the desk from Mycroft, but it felt too formal. He walked over to  the desk, shoved some papers aside, and hopped up. He placed himself directly in front of Mycroft, legs spread on either side of him.

Mycroft hummed with pleasure and ran his hands up from John’s knees to his hips. He looked up at John, his disarming smile, challenging eyes, and he felt a rush of adoration for this young doctor who’d fallen into his life and captured his heart. He tugged John’s hips and John took the hint, sliding off the desk onto Mycroft’s lap.

“What would you like, sweet boy?” Mycroft asked, murmuring into John’s ear as he ran his hands up the expanse of John’s back.

John blushed, and then nestled his head into Mycroft’s neck, pressing small kisses up the length of his gorgeous neck. Finally, he said, “I have bit of a favor to ask.”

“Go on.”

“I’m doing a shift today at the domestic shelter, where one of the doctors got mugged last month. I know you watch the CCTV cameras; and I was kind of hoping you’d watch out for me as I walk to and from. It’ll be dark by the time I leave, and that whole area’s poorly lit. It’d be nice to have back up, so to speak.” John looked up, and Mycroft saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face as he explained, “I don’t mind taking down a bloke if it comes to that, but then there’s coppers involved, and I’d really rather you just kept on eye out for me.”

Mycroft beamed and his eyes shined. Sherlock derided him for years over his meddling, his overly concerned demeanor, and John, well. John was just perfect. Not only did John accept Mycroft’s close attentions to the ones he loved, he even embraced the surveillance. He trusted Mycroft to protect him.

He’d not let John regret it. “Of course, John. I’ll never stop trying to keep you safe.”

-o-

On a much needed day off, John found himself in Sherlock’s room, sitting cross legged on the silk green sheets. The duvet had been peeled from the bed and tossed unceremoniously in the corner, as it was covered in several small chemical burns from an experiment or four ago. Spread in front of John were two of Sherlock’s handwritten, leather bound journals, and he attempted to make sense of them. His laptop sat to his left, and he spent a bit of time looking up terms and formats, before bothering to ask Sherlock a question.

Four times of five, John’s questions were met with scowls and derision, and John simply rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s ‘But It’s Evident to Me’ attitude. But twenty percent of the time, John’s inquiries led to silence and contemplation. After a few minutes, Sherlock would scoff, and start, “Isn’t it obvious?” but John knew it wasn’t always immediately explicable to Sherlock, either. Often, Sherlock knew something was true, but when called to prove it, found himself faltering. He once spent a half hour proving a theorem he’d derided John for not immediately accepting as fact.

These were the moments that made writing up Sherlock’s findings worthwhile. To catch him, trap him in those instances where he took liberties and wild leaps of faith, proved to John that he was definitely worthy of the Holmes’ attentions.

Granted, Mycroft’s courtesies didn’t require a detailed understanding of biology and chemistry, but of political science, manipulation and persuasion. And John’s cherished those similar instances, when he’d ask Mycroft a question, and his love would pause, then curse at his own faults. John craved feeling useful, both at work and personally. Despite his cleverness at the hospital often responsible for saving lives, it was the usefulness he brought into the lives of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes of which he felt most proud.

To feel, in some ways, equal, and in all ways, needed, comforted John in a way he’d never before experienced. At home, as a child, it was stressful and tiring to be needed as he was, but in his new home, with his partner and his best friend, to be needed was to simply be himself. To raise the clear questions, to offer the simplest solutions, to suggest horses when both Mycroft and Sherlock saw zebras, it was ingrained in John, and he felt warmly at ease for the first time in years.

He tapped slowly at his laptop, and Sherlock mocked him once again for his ‘hunt and peck’ method of typing. But the teasing was in good fun, friendly, and Sherlock showed, but didn’t vocalize, his appreciation for John’s work. Together, they’d published near a dozen articles, and Sherlock was attracting attention before he’d even graduated. John’s attendings praised him for his multidisciplinary approach to research, and his peers continued to collaborate with him on the more interesting case studies. John Watson, MD became a name more known than he’d expected during residency, and his association with the genius Sherlock Holmes only elevated his status.

-o-

Dr. Clancy, the residency director, greeted Mycroft with a solid, firm handshake. “John’s father, I presume?” he asked, and John’s cheeks burned red before immediately correcting him.

“Dr. Clancy, this is my partner, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Dr. Clancy,” John rushed to explain. Dr. Clancy’s blinked hesitantly, but he smoothly apologized and thanked Mycroft for coming to John’s graduation. John sensed this uncomfortable greeting might be replicated, and instead of suffering awkward after awkward moment, he instead sought out the residency coordinator. The woman was a scheduling genius, the unofficial caretaker for all the surgical residents, and also the office gossip. Introducing Tarah to Mycroft would be the easiest and fastest way to disseminate the information and to prevent further embarrassment.

Tarah was a lovely woman, a young mother, with bold, bright tattooed sleeves. John was amazed when he first met her; medicine was typically such a traditional field, and he’d once worked at a hospital that requested a colleague to cover his single earlobe piercing with a flesh colored bandage. To see Tarah, in her professional dresses with short sleeved jackets, forearms and biceps laden with beautiful artwork, was a pleasantry he enjoyed each morning.

He dragged Mycroft over and introduced him to the woman who solved a full ninety percent of his administrative problems with her quick thinking and vast residency knowledge. “Tarah!” he exclaimed, always glad to see her, “I’d like you to meet Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, Tarah is the office mum.”

Tarah extended her colorful arm for a handshake and flirted, “Well, hello, handsome. Ring, but on the wrong hand, I see.” Tarah turned to John, but winked at Mycroft on the way, “Does your friend need a date? He’s just gorgeous!”

John smiled, and clasped Mycroft’s hand in his own, and affected a playful accent, “I had ‘im first, sorry luv.” He placed a quick, chaste kiss on the back of Mycroft’s hand to emphasize his point.

Tarah’s eyes opened wide as her mouth dropped, “Jesus, Johnny, you didn’t tell me you were dating someone! And such a handsome bloke at that. This is what happens when you’re all closed up like that, always too shy to talk about your life. I bet the poor man’s been hit on all night long, dressed to the nines like he is.”

“I’m counting on you, Tarah. Help me keep the sharks off him?”

Tarah beamed, and then gave John an enormous hug, “Don’t you worry, baby, I’ll take care it.”

-o-

Just a half hour later, John crossed the stage in a bespoke suit bought specially for the occasion. As he collected his residency diploma, he looked into the crowd and saw Mycroft applauding perfectly politely. As he caught the older man’s eye, he winked, and Mycroft grinned.

It was a moment that resonated with him, a brilliant happiness he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. Elated, he nearly tripped down the stairs, lost in Mycroft’s eyes.

It was at that moment, in that phenomenal, glorious instant, John knew without a doubt.

He was going to ask Mycroft Holmes to marry him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it satisfied!  
> There may be timestamps (I kind of want Harry to meet Mycroft), but I feel that it's finally done for now.   
> Thank you for all your support!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find more me on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/).  
> You can find more Johncroft at [MycroftandJohn.tumblr.com](http://mycroftandjohn.tumblr.com/).


End file.
